


The Desolation of Ignis

by hati_skoll



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dragons, M/M, OT4 if you squint - Freeform, Possessive Behavior
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-04
Updated: 2018-09-23
Packaged: 2019-04-18 08:05:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14208801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hati_skoll/pseuds/hati_skoll
Summary: Ignis is the last dragonborn in the House of Scientia, dedicated to protecting his hoard (read: friends) from the grasping claws of the Niflheim empire. Woe betide those who seek to separate him from his treasure of treasures.He is fire. He is death.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For the [kinkmeme](https://ffxv-kinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/4747.html?thread=9552011#cmt9552011):
> 
> So the reason Ignis comes from a long line of royal retainers is because they're all dragons. By introducing them early to their charges, they develop attachments that mean they view them as their treasures - creating a loyal, caring and protective advisor. 
> 
> Ignis is a more hoard-y dragon than most though. Which is why his hind brain has declared Gladio also his treasure. And, oops, now Prompto too. 
> 
> If you want to add in more treasures, feel free. Conversely, Ignis can down upon somebody as not worthy of being treasure(Ardyn, Dino, Vyv, etc.)

Ignis blames it on the enforced close proximity over weeks, but lately, he's developed an innate awareness of Prompto and Gladio, alongside the decade-long obsession with his prince that has him waking up in the middle of the night, thinking, 'Where is Noctis? Is he safe? Is he well? Does he have need of me?' – and that's back when Insomnia wasn't a smoking pile of rubble and they weren't on the run from a violent, greedy empire.

It's both better and worse now, since Noctis is always within sight. The dragon in him is soothed to have the pearl of his hoard an arm's reach away, but his scales are simultaneously ruffled at the suggestion that someone – a lot of someone's, as it seems – has the gall to try and take Noctis from him. It's inconceivable, and _rude_ , the dragon part of him rattles away indignantly in his mind – along with the typical melodramatic draconic diatribe of 'How dare they? Who do they think they are, those pathetic little men in iron? They will feel the wrath of my flame. My teeth are swords, my claws are spears, my wings are a hurricane', etc.

It's embarrassing, but perhaps there will come a time when Ignis is able to deliver the line with as much aplomb and unabashed vigour as his larger, more lizard-like ancestors. Every dragonborn wants to try it out at least once – but stuck in humanoid form as most of them are, the line just doesn't convey as much oomph as it used to.

One day, he thinks, as he rises from their nest of sleeping bags and blankets. Hardly adequate nesting material for his hoard, his _pearl_ , but they've had to make do.

Breakfast preparations are thankfully compliant with the routine Ignis has cultivated over his years of service to Noctis in Insomnia. The pan turns sizzling hot at the touch of his palm, and Ignis generously coats it with butter before pouring the egg-and-milk-mixture over. The familiar motions make him feel slightly less annoyed at their diminished circumstances.

Out here in the open, his hoard is unsafe. They're easy pickings. He fights down the urge to wrap Noctis in a bundle and ferry him away to a cave or a tower, somewhere far away from civilisation. Vestigial inclinations, from an age where dragons ruled the skies, and humans lived in fear of their fiery wrath – an age long past. The dragons have served the Lucis Caelum line for centuries now, ever since one of their own fell in love with a Lucian King and declared all descendants of Lucis dragonfriend.

"Smells good," Gladiolus greets him with a yawn, ambling out of the tent.

"Scrambled Zu eggs, smoked Garula sirloin, French toast, and a serving of Ulwaat berries and cream for some much needed vitamins," Ignis says, gesturing for Gladio to set the table, "They'll be ready in a minute."

Prompto gapes, shuffling after Gladio. "Wow, Iggy. What's the occasion?"

"None, save for a beautiful Sunday morning. I thought it'd be good to spoil ourselves once in a while, a little extra motivation to get our spirits up."

"You mean, you thought it'll be good to spoil the princess once in a while," Gladiolus snorts, before mouthing, 'Ulwaat berries' conspiratorially at Prompto.

Ignis rolls his eyes just as Prompto cheerfully announces, "I'm all for spoiling Noct if it means we get a feast like this every morning."

"Well, if you two could refrain from scarfing everything down, I'll wake Noctis and we can all have breakfast," Ignis says.

He puts the food in the middle of the table, fusses minimally with the placement of the cutlery and directs Gladio and Prompto to their chairs, before ducking back into the tent.

Most days it's Ignis who rouses the prince from sleep, an unspoken agreement amongst the four of them that's mostly established out of habit, but also for the sake of Ignis' peace of mind. He just gets a little… out of sorts when his treasure of treasures is not _exactly where he's left him_. It's a foolish reaction, especially since he knows Noctis is perfectly safe with Gladio or Prompto, but… The last time Gladio took Noctis out for a morning run without telling him, Ignis nearly snapped.

"Noctis," he calls, gently tugging the sheets and bed rolls from a stubbornly sleepy prince. _Exactly as he's left him_. Ignis breathes out a sigh of relief.

"What time is it?" Noctis groans, sounding sleep-deprived even though he's had his full eight hours.

"Late."

Noctis rubs his eyes and flops to the side, grabbing at his phone. "It's not even seven thirty."

"And the sun has well risen, so we're wasting daylight, Your Highness."

That gets Noctis' attention; he sits up with a scowl. "No titles."

"As you wish," Ignis says, lips twitching.

Noctis pins him with a supremely unimpressed glare, before clambering out of his sleeping bag, muttering under his breath in a disgruntled, put-upon sort of way and Ignis applies himself to tidying their nest while his prince washes up using the small basin of water they've set in the corner.

They're done in under ten minutes, which is practically a record, but Ignis stops short just as he lifts the tent flap to escort his prince to the breakfast table, an inexplicable, irritable twinge settling in his chest.

He speaks before he thinks better of it. "Prompto, you weren't seated there."

Prompto glances up, startled. "Huh?"

"You were seated… in this chair," Ignis continues, a small part of him knows he's being ridiculous, it doesn't really matter where Prompto sits, except it does. "And where is Gladiolus?"

"Scoot over, Promp," Noctis commands, and Ignis feels slightly better when Prompto complies.

"Uh, Gladio went to pick up his book from the car," Prompto says, uncertainly. "Sorry for shifting, I was taking a couple of shots and the light looks better from that angle."

"That's fine," Ignis says, and it is, but it really isn't.

He's wrestling down the illogically ornery dragon that's trying to make itself apparent, when Gladiolus comes sauntering up to them, posture loose, smile lazy and a book in hand. "Oh, the princess is up. I thought you'd take longer."

And Ignis knows, he _knows_ , that Gladiolus can take on a squadron of Niflheim's finest and come out of it smelling like a- well, not a rose, like a wet behemoth maybe, but in that moment, red washes over his vision and he bites out, "You were supposed to be waiting _here_."

Gladiolus blinks. "Relax. I only went over to the regalia."

"You could have been ambushed."

"The regalia's right there," Gladiolus says, pointing a little to the east, where the car sits idle, across the open field, in full view of all of them – not more than a hundred metres away.

"The empire could have taken you when our heads were turned," Ignis insists, even though he feels absolutely asinine and he knows Prompto and Gladio are goggling at him.

Noctis is the only one utterly unfazed by Ignis' unexplainably churlish behaviour. "Can you pass the egg, specs?"

"Of course, Noct," Ignis says, ladling a generous portion onto his plate.

Gladiolus and Prompto are now communicating with worried looks and raised eyebrows, and Ignis stamps down the urge to snap at both of them. Finally, Gladiolus offers a conciliatory, "Sorry, I'll take Prompto with me next time?"

Which is… an intensely dissatisfying response. Ignis swallows the growl that's beginning to build in his throat, reciting the Scientia oath in his head to try for some measure of calm and failing quite miserably. He opens his mouth to say something utterly stupid and possibly friendship-wrecking, when Noctis sets his glass of freshly-squeezed juice on the table pointedly.

"Tell him you won't do it again," Noctis says.

All of them stare at him with varying looks of incomprehension.

Noctis sighs. "Gladio, tell Iggy you won't go off on your own again. Not without telling him first."

It's testament to how confused Gladiolus is that he immediately concedes with an awkward, "Yeah, I'll tell you next time."

The flicker of annoyance dissipates and Ignis slowly nods. "Thank you. I'm sorry for the outburst. It was inappropriate. I don't know what came over me."

"Isn't it the dragon thing?" Noctis asks, with all the eloquence befitting his station, "Woe betide those who seek to separate a dragon from his hoard, et cetera et cetera. They're now part of your hoard too, Gladio and Promp."

It's Ignis' turn to goggle – at his _prince_ , which is wholly undignified and _unacceptable_ , but he can't seem to stop himself. All his life, he's only had Noctis – well, and various other knickknacks, like his cookbook, and his spectacles, small comforts in the grand scheme of things – for his hoard. He's never heard of a dragonborn, certainly none in the House of Scientia, who's taken humans outside the line of Lucis as one of their own. And there definitely hasn't been a precedent for adding multiple humans to one hoard. It's… It's just not _done_.

He's reluctant to see how Gladio and Prompto are reacting to the idea. Surely they'll be appalled? Especially after he's made such a horrible nuisance of himself- Ignis turns his head to find Prompto looking… quite emotional, touched and teary-eyed. And Gladio… seems a bit embarrassed, but also rather smug and pleased with himself. It's baffling, but they're obviously happy to be part of his hoard, even though it's proven highly inconvenient- Ignis frowns, turning back to his prince because his life is making less sense by the minute, and he's in need of some consistency.

"More egg?" Noctis asks, holding his plate out.

Ignis hums in relief. "Of course, Noct."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those who caught the references, I'm sorry, Smaug is best dragon.
> 
> Find me on [Tumblr](http://hati-skoll.tumblr.com/post/174036195712/the-desolation-of-ignis-14).


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gladiolus leaves, and Ignis is _not_ happy.

It's as if Gladiolus immediately wants to test out Ignis' patience because it's not two days since the Incident – that's what Ignis calls it in the privacy of his own mind, sans snarling inner-dragon – and their resident wall of muscle is politely informing them that he's going on an adventure. On his own. Of course.

He gets Noctis' blessings, which comes in the form of an unhurried 'ungmf', so Gladiolus traipses off to Bahamut knows where, and Ignis adamantly refuses to acknowledge the twinge of something in his chest. He knows Gladiolus will return. Logically, he does. And if that tinny draconic voice at the back of his mind will stop caterwauling for five bloody seconds, it'll be very much appreciated.

The House of Amicitia is tied to the line of Lucis just as closely as the dragonborns of Scientia, bonded with blood and magic. The Shield is thus no more capable of leaving his king than Ignis is of leaving his hoard. Gladiolus _will_ return. Dragon instincts, meet common sense, and pray don't rip it to shreds.

Not for the first time, Ignis wonders if all dragonborns suffer a tendency towards borderline personality disorder, or if such behaviour is as anomalous as it is for humans and warrant psychiatric assistance. He thinks it’s the former.

"Iggy, you okay?" Prompto asks, from the backseat of the Regalia.

They're on the way to the Vesperpool, because Cid requires a bulk of mythril only available in the deepest recesses of Steyliff Grove, a crumbling mausoleum that has seen better days during the tumultuous reign of Solheim.

"Of course," Ignis replies – which generally means, not in the slightest, but don't mind my unobtrusively downward-spiralling sanity.

"He's not okay," says Noctis, who's never quite gotten the hang of speaking in subtext, a troubling if not genuinely charming quality of their young monarch, "He's upset that Gladio's ditched us. Dragon thing, remember?"

"Gladiolus has not 'ditched' us," Ignis corrects, "And keep your eyes on the road, Noct."

He doesn't tell Noctis to keep both hands on the steering wheel, however. He likes the way their fingers feel, laced together - likes it more than he should. It's a weakness and he's not supposed to have any of those, but he can’t find it in himself to give it up.

"Sure. Whatever you say, specs."

"Oh, if only," Ignis mutters, loud enough for Noctis to hear and scoff in mock outrage.

They arrive at the vast fishing grounds without much fanfare – well, save for the unsettling welcome from Niflheim's terribly helpful imperial chancellor. Noctis treats the man with casual indifference, because he's too gentle for his own good and puts far too much faith in the kindness of strangers, but Ignis doesn’t trust that fedora-totting Niflhemian louse. He’s been wearing a floor-length leather trench coat, a turtleneck and a _scarf_ in this astral-forsaken Cleigne heat, and he's yet to show any signs of perspiration. Either his sweat glands are made of sterner stuff - than a _dragonborn’s_ , an utterly ludicrous notion - or the man isn’t entirely human.

"You don't have to shadow your precious prince, I'm not about to steal him away," Chancellor Izunia remarks as he leads them towards- certain doom, perhaps, the amusement in his voice chafes at Ignis' draconic sensibilities. "Or shall I call him your pearl, dragonborn?"

The dragon in Ignis recognises the chancellor as a threat and roars to assert its dominance. It takes an immense amount of self-control not to go straight for the jugular. "Your highness – that's how you ought to address Noct. But as we're currently incognito, the lack of formality may be excused."

"How awfully gracious of you," Chancellor Izunia offers up an indulgent grin and turns to bother Prompto instead. "Has he snapped at you yet for straying too close to his treasure of treasures?"

"No, Iggy's cool," Prompto says loyally.

And somehow, the chancellor latches onto that, regarding them all with sharp, unreadable eyes. "You're part of his hoard."

Prompto predictably flushes, and Ignis sees no point in continuing the conversation after that entirely telling reaction. Noctis, however, peers around him to glare at the imperial chancellor, chiming in with an imperious and petulant, "Yeah, so?"

"It's a fact well-established that dragons are rather picky about the contents of their hoard," Chancellor Izunia says, brows raised, "Once imprinted, I reckon it takes an outstanding specimen, or a fierce love, for a dragonborn to consider another human their own."

"Yeah? Promp and Gladio seem pretty outstanding to me," Noctis says.

It's not what the chancellor had been trying to get at, but he simply shrugs and tips his damnable fedora in Ignis' direction with something akin to pity. Ignis understands then. Prompto and Gladiolus are his because they're _Noct's_. His dragon instincts have claimed them in response to Noctis' desire to see them protected. And that's… above and beyond duty; that's more than any magical, biological reaction between a descendant of Lucis and dragonborn of Scientia; in fact, that's very much like-

"They're very outstanding," Ignis agrees.

Prompto flushes a brighter shade of red and Noctis guffaws. And Ignis doesn't imagine burning the chancellor to a crisp while staring at his back the rest of their walk down to Steyliff Grove.

*

They're met – surprisingly – by another dragonborn at the entrance of the decrepit crypt. The… de-crypt-pit.

Aranea Highwind. An enemy of Lucis, and thus a traitor to dragonkind, but Ignis likes her nevertheless. He admires her for that spirit of self-determination, if anything.

Unlike the last time they crossed paths – within the suffocating concrete walls of Fort Vaullerey, Commodore Highwind's there to assist them, as opposed to encumbering their endeavour. She's also accompanied by two men, Biggs and Wedge. They're not quite her friends, according to the commodore, but she trusts them implicitly. Ignis comes to the belated realisation, whilst clearing yet another room of daemons, that they're both part of her hoard.

He's understandably curious, but it'll be a horrible faux pas to ask outright, so Ignis stews over the little epiphany in consternation until Commodore Highwind sees fit to relieve him of his internal turmoil.

"You look like you're thinking at maximum flight velocity. Spit it out, Scientia."

"Biggs and Wedges," Ignis says, leaving it vague enough for the commodore to sidestep the question if she wants to.

She doesn't seem to mind, however, because she gives a perfectly eloquent shrug. "Met them both on the streets when we were all in our teens. They always were a package deal."

Ah, that answers it. She must have imprinted on them at the same time. An exceedingly rare occurrence, unheard of, but technically, not altogether impossible. Ignis hums. "Have they always been aware of your ancestry?"

"Not many humans can jump ten metres into the air," Commodore Highwind rolls her eyes, "Or levitate."

"An incriminating give-away," Ignis agrees.

"Is that all?" she asks, although she doesn't appear too put-off by his line of questioning.

Ignis ponders over the puzzle Commodore Highwind presents him by way of simply _existing_ , only to be interrupted by a couple of liches – tall, hooded humanoids wreathed in unnatural green flames. The dragon in him rears at the sight of them. It never reacts well to the notion of daemons anywhere within a five metre radius from its pearl, but the liches provoke an exceptionally violent response. Maybe because there's something hauntingly familiar about the way they call flames to their fingertips – it's like looking into a distorted mirror, landing squarely in the uncanny valley.

Commodore Highwind must have felt just as strongly about them, because between the two dragonborns, the liches are swiftly – and rather _brutally_ – dispatched. Prompto gapes in wide-eyed amazement, while Noctis squints with an air of long-suffering, kingly exasperation.

Ignis clears his throat, continuing their previous conversation as if he and the nice commodore haven't had something of a meltdown just five seconds ago. "We've always assumed ourselves only capable of bonding to the line of Lucis, because our ancestor-"

"Fell in love with a Lucian king and declared all descendants of Lucis dragonfriend," Commodore Highwind snorts, "Yeah, I've heard that one before."

"So it's false?" Ignis presses on.

"Don't know, don't care. It's never made a difference to me," she makes a face, "A Niflhemian dragonborn isn't ever going to be selected for services to the Lucian crown."

An easily explainable case of probability then, Ignis surmises. The dragonborns have only bonded with Lucian royalty and nobility thus far because those are all the humans they've ever _known_. But stragglers – non-Lucian dragonborns Ignis hasn't realised _existed_ prior to meeting Commodore Highwind – have been exposed to humans far different and far more numerous, he suspects, from their Lucian counterparts.

Then they're walking down a short flight of steps into a high-ceilinged atrium, bordered by crumbling stone columns and balconies, with serpentine shadows rippling over the floor cast by the underwater skylight and Prompto promptly jinxes it by commenting on the likelihood of encountering a _big nasty_. A large reptilian beast makes its appearance by clambering up onto the front dais, odd avian claws scratching against the weathered flooring, before it launches itself into the air with strong, methodical beats of its enormous wings. And Ignis… feels nothing but _envy_.

Commodore Highwind whistles in grudging admiration. "Not bad."

It swoops down to them and lets out a deafening battle cry that doesn't require any sort of translation to understand it means to fight.

"Can't you talk to her? Tell her we come in peace? You're practically cousins!" Prompto shouts.

"Distant cousins," Ignis says. "Very distant."

"That's an overgrown winged reptile, not a dragon," Commodore Highwind adds.

"Aren't dragons winged reptiles?" Prompto complains.

Ignis sighs as he draws out a dagger engulfed in icy blue fire. "We'll discuss taxonomy in a more conducive, educational environment."

It takes some effort from all of them, but they eventually fell the _winged reptile_. Ignis secretly enjoys the rush of power and adrenaline in his veins when he conjures up frost and flames as is his second nature. Commodore Highwind, on the other hand, makes no secret of her delight in leaping up to meet the beast spear for claw. She strikes at it with vicious exhilaration, almost as quick as Noctis with his blades.

They pick up the mythril and are in the midst of trekking back towards the entrance when Commodore Highwind tells Ignis, in what appears to be a reluctant admittance, "You know I used to envy you."

"Me," Ignis questions.

"Lucian dragonborns," Commodore Highwind clarifies, but then she pauses. "Well, also you as in _you_. The last heir of Scientia, last descendent of the great dragons, mightiest of our kind – then again, your reputation's probably inflated."

"I daresay it is."

Commodore Highwind chuckles. "I figured that out when I was sixteen, and I saw you on the television."

"Astrals, I don't recall having to fulfil my duties in any sort of public capacity before I was ten."

"Nah, it was one of those gossip channels," Commodore Highwind shrugs, "You guys were at some parade. You two, not you," she nods at Prompto a little apologetically, "His Highness over there was too short to look over the parapet, so you tried lifting him with your arms round his waist. The newscaster loved that."

Ignis frowns, and exchanges a glance with Noctis. "I don't think I remember that."

"Course not. You were- Eight? And I bet it was just one parade out of countless. But."

"But?" Noctis prods.

Commodore Highwind gives him a rueful grin. "It just hit me. That I have it good, because I’m out here. Don’t owe anyone anything. The House of Scientia’s got all the snazzy powers and fancy titles, but what’s the point in having any of that if they haven't the freedom to choose their hoard for themselves?"

Noctis raises his brows, and Ignis steps in front of him, trying very hard not to snarl. "My choice is Noct, and it will only ever be Noct."

"Don't breathe fire at me. I believe that," Commodore Highwind chuckles – an overly smug, entertained sort of sound; although it’s so much a surprise that it takes the wind out of Ignis' non-existent leathery wings, "After seeing you guys together, I do. It might've gotten me a little envious again."

"But you've got those two guys out there," Noctis protests, "Biggs and Wedges."

 "Only a _little_ envious," Commodore Highwind teases, reaching over to muss Noctis' hair. It lasts for only a second, but it's long enough for Ignis' dragon to bristle at the perceived slight. Commodore Highwind deftly retracts her offending appendage before he can snap it off, and cocks an entirely judgemental brow at him.

He still has a good mind to do _something_ – seek retribution for the infringement of his hoard, but then Noctis lifts Ignis' hand and sets it on the crown of his head. Ignis blinks, while Commodore Highwind gives him a full-blown smirk. "Noct?"

"You were about to go all pissed-off-dragon at her," Noctis explains.

Has he truly been so _obvious_? Ignis attempts to school the contrite frown off his face as he pets Noctis obligingly, allowing himself to enjoy the soft, downy, heart-achingly _fluffy_ feeling – a shame to pass up after he's received Noct's kingly seal of approval as much as it's an impropriety. "I apologise, I'll learn to control myself better."

Commodore Highwind responds with a derisive snort, just as Prompto bursts into incredulous laughter – which peters out into a nervous chuckle after about three seconds. And Noctis… kind, supportive, _unknowingly cruel_ Noctis, clasps Ignis' shoulder in what's probably meant to be encouraging solidarity, but instead feels too much like doubtful sympathy.

 Ignis tries not to huff at all of them in affront.

*

The commodore deposits them at the edge of Lestallum, where the power plant is besieged by daemons, and of course, Noctis wants to help.

After learning that they're there to offer their services, Holly, senior technician of EXINERIS, dredges up a single thermal suit. And Ignis'll be damned by scourge, Lucii and astral before he lets his treasure of treasures enter the daemon-infested facility alone, _even if_ they say there's another hunter waiting just up ahead.

"You can't go in without a suit. You'll be roasted alive," Holly warns for the umpteenth time, exasperation settling in lines above her brows.

"Hardly," Ignis mutters, determinedly slipping past the gates after his king, "Fret not. It can't be any hotter than the Rock of Ravatogh. And I've taken a relaxing dip there. It felt perfectly divine."

Holly stares at him, evidently unsure if he means that in jest or if he's certifiably insane, and Prompto heaves out a long sigh, giving up on secrecy. "He's not lying."

"Dragonborn," Noctis grunts, voice a little muffled behind the thermal suit's mask.

Holly's eyes go wide as saucers and Ignis tells her, "We'd rather not spread that around, I'm sure you understand why."

Ignis thus accompanies his pearl up to the power plant with no further complaints coming from Holly's corner. She directs them to the entrance with clear, precise instructions, quickly taking Ignis' revelation in stride. And there, they come upon The Other Hunter – a burly man with a gruff voice that's undoubtedly Gladiolus. He's not fooling anyone despite being covered from head to toe.

"Gladiolus," Ignis greets, after the king and shield are both done posturing. _Humans_.

"Iggy, you ruined the intrigue," Gladiolus groans.

"I wasn't aware there was any to begin with," Ignis says, raising his brows, "You didn't bat an eye at me showing up suit-less, anyone else would have showed at least a modicum of trepidation."

"It's the spirit of the thing," Gladiolus insists.

Noctis nods hard enough for the headpiece of his suit to bob up and down.

And because Ignis will never understand their inconceivable rituals, he acquiesces with a polite, "Apologies. I'll play along next time."

He can feel Noctis squinting at him from behind his mask and struggles not to smile.

The daemons in the power plant are hardly worth their time. They're soft-bellied prey in comparison to that hellion of a reptile within Steyliff Grove. Nevertheless, Ignis remains sharp and vigilant. He'll never take Noctis' safety for granted. The dragon in him is restless, however – the urge to play, to _hunt_ warring with the need to see its pearl _far away from here_. The ingrained protectiveness wins out eventually, as it always does, and Ignis makes quick work of the goblins surrounding him. Noctis and Gladiolus easily bring down the garchimaceras on their end, so they're wrapping things up within minutes.

"Gladio, big guy! So you were the Other Hunter," Prompto cheerfully yells when they're all out of the place and out of those utterly offensive trash bags of a fashion crisis. "Wow, someone did a number on you."

Ignis glances over at Gladiolus, wondering what on eos Prompto meant, because those daemons will do no numbers on _anyone_ and then he sees it. That awful new scar marking his friend straight across his forehead. Ignis stifles a groan as his inner dragon hisses and snaps, and there, at the back of his skull is the onset of another draconic migraine.

"You should see the other guy," Gladiolus enthuses.

Ignis frowns. "I'd hoped he'd be dead." Because then his dragon instincts won't insist upon hunting the man down for revenge.

"Yeah, he's been dead for centuries."

And Ignis gives up on the conversation altogether.

Iris thankfully appears to take the mythril off their hands, a welcome distraction from the awful ruckus going on in his mind. He doesn't appreciate the reminder that they're about to leave Lucis, on the other hand. The dragon in him absolutely loathes it, hates the idea of taking his hoard so far away from their nesting grounds.

Before he devolves into another meltdown, Noctis' hand is in his, squeezing lightly. "With me, specs?"

"Of course," Ignis replies, almost on instinct as his dragon settles – slowly, but surely, soothed by the close proximity of his treasure of treasures.

And in that moment, Ignis sees everything with perfect clarity. Home is behind, the world ahead – but at the very least, his hoard is with him.

And if this is all to end in fire… then he'll gladly burn the world for them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been dropping Tolkien's lines here and there because I'm trash. This chapter is... weirdly more serious than I'd expected it to be.
> 
> [Tumblr](http://hati-skoll.tumblr.com/post/174036295467/the-desolation-of-ignis-24)!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Cliff ahead, sharp rocks at the bottom. Proceed with caution.

There's been significantly less burning and a lot more drowning during their stint in Altissia, much to Ignis' immense chagrin. Granted, the city's right at the edge of the ocean, so it's well within his expectations, but. It's just been an awfully trying week — what with the Hydrean's unreasonable attempt to sink Accordo's capital, after which the lady oracle so inconveniently passed on to meet the Sixes. Ignis has it up to here with people, daemons and gods trying to decimate what's left of his hoard. So when he hears Noctis' voice from over the phone line, distorted by the terrible reception in Tenebrae's outskirts but distinctly panicked, his stomach twists something awful, and a viscous fire burns its way up his throat.

Then he finds out that it's _Prompto_ who's fallen off the train amidst the empire's assault, and the dragon in him hisses, outraged— but there's also that undeniable sense of _relief_ smoothing over his ruffled scales like a well-practiced hand. Because Noctis — his _pearl_ — is safe. He feels mildly sorry for Prompto. But this is no time for polite, guilt-ridden self-reproach.

"You really think we'll find Promp in Gralea?" Gladiolus asks when he ends the call.

He's not a hundred percent sure, but he believes the probability high enough to be statistically significant. He wouldn't lie to Noctis and get his hopes up, only to have him brutally disappointed. "I think it's likely, going by the chancellor's past behaviour."

"That so," Gladiolus says, crossing his arms and pausing for a moment before he adds, "You've been weird ever since Noct got the Tidemother's blessings."

"Weird," Ignis repeats.

"Yeah, pricklier than usual. Is it a dragon thing? Do you need a hug or something?"

Ignis actually laughs at that, he hasn't had reason to laugh for a while now. "I suppose you could say it's a dragon thing. But rest assured, I've yet to completely succumb to my baser instincts. I'm not in need of constant physical validation."

Gladiolus shrugs. "I think Noct'll appreciate a hug too."

"If Noct voluntarily requests a hug from me, then I will be most happy to oblige," Ignis says, "But there will be no prodding from your quarter, I trust. Nor will there be meaningful elbowing, or… eyebrow communicating."

Gladiolus snorts at that, and Ignis assumes that'll be the end to the matter, but he's surprised a moment later as Gladiolus grudgingly presses on, "Do you want to talk about it?"

"About my 'dragon thing'," Ignis clarifies — he gets a short nod from Gladiolus, "Well. I'm not opposed if you aren't. Truthfully, I'm afraid it might put you off your dinner."

"I'm all ears."

He stifles a laugh at that familiar mix of dread and determination in the set of Gladiolus' jaw — he's been the unfortunate audience to one too many of Ignis' "I-will-snap-his-bones-divest-them-of-flesh-and-use-them-for-broth" spiels. It isn't a coincidence, of course, he's freer with his words around Noctis' Shield because Gladiolus' one of the most open-minded about their… cultural differences.

"I'm sorry, that was a jest. It's nothing so gruesome, I promise."

Gladiolus heaves out a sigh, visibly relieved. "You snake."

"Dragon," Ignis corrects, "And what you're witnessing is merely a dragonborn's over-sensitive fight-or-flight instinct kicking into overdrive, so to speak."

Gladiolus nods. "It's been a stressful couple of days."

"Our enemies are vast and numerous, some of them unseen. My… less sensible, reptilian side is hankering for a fight, but there's nothing to fight _here_. Which leaves us the option to flee, you understand.

"It wants to take him away from all of this.  Somewhere far away, a place where the scourge, the daemons and the astrals can't touch him," Ignis pauses, wonders how much he ought to divulge to Noctis' Shield, "But I know I mustn't. And I know I can't. It's just… there are two dragons fighting inside of me."

Gladiolus grins, because that folk tale's been repeated to them dozens of times — every child in Lucis grows up hearing it. "One of violence and darkness, the other of peace and light. Which one wins?"

"The one I feed."

Gladiolus pats him on the shoulder. "You'll do alright."

Ignis raises a brow, feels the odd burn in his gut, the uncomfortable itch just beneath his skin, and doesn't tell Gladiolus he's not sure which dragon he's been feeding — whichever it is, it's clawing its way out of him.

*

He opens his eyes and finds himself standing in the middle of what looks suspiciously like Lucis' throne room, but doused in a luminescent, ghostly blue. He's surrounded on all sides by imposingly armoured men and women, robed in shadows and a general air of weary contempt. He knows he's awaiting their judgement, remembers putting on their ring, the Ring of Lucii and praying for divine intervention. And here they are.

"Ignis Scientia," the tallest amongst them says, "Child of Bahamut."

"Your Majesty," Ignis sketches a bow.

"You challenge the Chosen's claim on the power of the Lucii."

"No," Ignis says, "No, I'm neither brave nor foolhardy enough to do so. The power of the Lucii belongs solely to Noct, but he lies unconscious and vulnerable. I only wish to use it in his stead, to bear his burdens when he's unable to bear them on his own."

"Your kind's always had a silver tongue," another king tuts.

"And a mythril heart," someone else interjects, "A dragonborn's loyalty is unquestionable. You ought to know that better than anyone here, Pervolo."

The other king snorts. "I wasn't questioning his loyalty. I was simply poking a bit of fun at the stereotypical draconic traits he's so zealously exuding. Honestly, Zephyr, your lack of a sense of humour is dreadfully tedious."

"Well, your bit of fun was hardly humorous."

"Children."

They quiet and Ignis ventures a polite cough. "Your Majesties, will you grant me this one impropriety, in light of the extenuating circumstances?"

The tallest of the kings nods. "Had you been human, you would not have been capable of bearing our boon without great sacrifice. But a dragonborn — especially one tied so closely to the Chosen — ought to be hardy enough to wield our ring without lasting damage. Go, but know that there will come a time when his burdens grow too great to shoulder, even for you, child of Bahamut."

He's about to thank them, profusely, but those terribly foreboding words stall his gratitude, and he remembers the odd vision that flashed before him while he was stumbling his way through the Tidemother's altar. He remembers the long darkness, the despair, the desperation. He remembers seeing Noctis pinned to the throne with a sword through his chest, like a butterfly on a collector's board. He remembers the heartbreak, pain lancing through him as real as a stab wound or a broken bone, the dragon in him whining, shrill, because it hurts. It _hurts_.

"Dragonborn," a woman's voice distracts him from the pain — one of Lucis' few reigning queens.

Ignis startles and momentarily forgets his manners. "Will it all come to pass?"

A discomfiting murmur goes through the room, setting him on edge. Eventually, one of the kings from before — Zephyr, he recalls — sighs. "It will."

His heart stops then, before picking up again in a galloping sprint. "There must be another way."

"The Crystal requires a sacrifice," someone says.

Of course it does. _Of course it does_. But why does it have to be _Noct_?

"I am Ignis Scientia, heir of Bahamut's first children, last descendant of the great dragons. My ancestor traded our claws for diplomacy, our scales for friendship, our wings for a home," Ignis breathes in slow, struggles to keep his voice level, "We have broken bread with the line of Lucis and prospered under the roof of Lucis Caelum. In respect and admiration for the cause of Lucis and its Chosen King," for _Noctis_ , my _pearl_ , my _love_ , Ignis keeps those epithets to himself, "We humbly request to pay his toll with our lives."

One of the slighter figures, armed with a star and masked with a dragon's skull, tilts her face to him. "We are impressed by your steadfast devotion, child of Bahamut. But not a hundred— no, not even a thousand dragons can take the place of the King of Light. His price is too steep for you, my dear."

"It's not!" he doesn't mean to shout at all past Lucian kings, doesn't mean any disrespect, "It's not, my lieges. There must be something. I'll give anything. I'll do anything. But Noct… Let him live. Please."

"Ignis," the figure closest to him says — familiar, kind, but resigned. _King Regis_.

" _Anything_. Name the price for his freedom."

"Ignis, there is none," King Regis says.

"Your Majesty, _please_."

"There is one," the man in the middle declares, voice thundering with command, yet heavy with regret, "Bahamut left us one other option."

"What is it?" King Regis asks, before Ignis manages to, "You've never mentioned this."

"I was not to mention it, unless the option finds its way to us," the oldest of the kings replies, "And now it has."

The rest of them are deathly still, and Ignis nearly bursts out laughing at that awful pun. Instead, he asks, "What is it?"

"The Crystal will not take your lives," Somnus Lucis Caelum, the Mystic, the First, tells him, "But it does have a vested interest in your—"

*

"Specs," Noctis calls, warping to his side through the crowd of shell-shocked passengers milling about Tenebrae's train station. Ignis forces away the urge to run his hands over his pearl, but he finds his self-restraint unnecessary, because Noctis' arms are around him in the next moment, head tucked into the crook of Ignis' neck. It lasts for all of three seconds, and then Noctis is stepping away, abashed.

Ignis frowns. While he's appreciative of the physical contact, it's unusual for Noctis to be so outwardly demonstrative in his affections. "Are you alright, Noct?"

"'M fine," Noctis shrugs, "You? Gladio?"

"We're fine," Ignis assures him, "I told you over the phone."

"Just wanted to be sure."

Ignis nods. He understands. He's been frantic with worry himself. It's only normal, of course, a dragonborn's natural response to their hoard under threat. Noctis, on the other hand, is human, and has no such instinct written into his genetic code, but his capacity for kindness transcends self-preservation. Ahead of them, Gladiolus is cautiously picking his way through Tenebrae's charred sylleblossoms — the once lavish royal garden, now repurposed as a refugees' camp. Ignis mourns the loss of a national treasure. But he thinks Lady Lunafreya will have been glad to know the ashes of her beloved flowers served as hearth for the straggling remains of her people when they most needed it.

"Scientia, Highness," Commodore Highwind waves them over. "Fancy seeing you three here. Where's your fourth?"

Ignis shakes his head and the commodore wisely aborts that line of conversation. She updates them on the situation in Tenebrae instead, tells them of how the empire torched everything, now that the oracle and high commander have both fallen out of favour. When she hears that they're making their way to Gralea, she offers up the services of Biggs and Wedge — and while Noctis and Gladiolus may seem appropriately grateful for the gesture, Ignis doesn't think they truly understand the gravity of her decision. But he does. He knows just how much it means for a dragonborn to be voluntarily separated from their hoard.

Then the commodore sends Noctis off to speak with one of the surviving retainers from House Fleuret, and none too subtly pulls him to a side. Gladiolus doesn't notice, deep in conversation with Biggs and Wedge about their upcoming travel plans.

"How many dragonborns were there," Commodore Highwind asks, "Back in Lucis?"

He considers the question. "The most recent census indicates there were slightly over two hundred of us registered with the Crown. Of course, with the fall of Insomnia, I suspect our numbers have dwindled. Non-registered, non-Insomnian dragonborns ought to make up the bulk of our current population, but even then, they're few and far between. I can't give you a good estimate, I'm afraid."

"So… a hundred if we're highballing?" she presses on.

He thinks back on his conversation with the Lucii, remembers one of them telling him, 'Not a hundred dragons can take the place of the King of Light' and he nods. "That should be accurate."

Commodore Highwind meets his eyes, her gaze unfathomable, jaw tensed. "A hundred."

"I hope you're not attempting to militarise all of us. Adept as you and I are at battle, I'm not certain if that's nature or nurture."

That startles a laugh out of the commodore. "Nah, that's not it."

"Then why the sudden interest in our numbers?"

"It's nothing, just," Commodore Highwind falls silent, "Do you… feel different? Gods, it's stupid, probably just the darkness and daemons throwing off my senses, but—"

"It's different."

"You feel it too," Commodore Highwind says, tone a curious mix of relief and dread, "Damn. I thought it was all in my head."

"It _is_ in your head," Ignis says, "But it's trying to get out, isn't it?"

She looks away, fear stripping away the bravado she's donned like a second suit of armour. And Ignis doesn't regret the choice he's had to make — he'll make the same a thousand times over — but he does feel _sorry_. Eventually, Commodore Highwind breaks the uneasy silence between them. "Have you got anything in your history textbooks that'll clue us in on what to expect?"

"I'm not sure how much stock you'd want to put in Lucian propaganda."

"It's gotta be better than the stories that trickle down to Niflheim I figure," Commodore Highwind shrugs, "We only ever hear about dragons burning down entire villages and eating people. Can't say I'm looking forward to either of that."

"Well, there has been documentation citing draconic aggression as the primary factor for significant property damage," Ignis says, "Burning down entire villages may not be quite so far a stretch from the truth."

"You're kidding."

"I am."

" _Scientia_."

Ignis raises a hand, placating. "We won't be mindless beasts, if that's what you're asking. Dragons have always been intelligent. The great dragons were Bahamut's first children, as far as religious doctrine's concerned. They've an entire chapter dedicated to us in the cosmogony — I was under the impression that we share a similar creationist mythos, for all of Lucis and Niflheim's differences."

"Oh, they took you out of Niflheim's edition."

"Pity. Noct declared that the best chapter."

Commodore Highwind gives him a look, but then her shoulders sag in relief and she says, "Guess suicide won't be necessary then."

"Suicide?" Ignis blinks, "That seems a little drastic."

"Yeah, well, look. I'd pick death over murder and arson," Commodore Highwind says, "The world's fucked as it is. It doesn't need another hundred rampaging, fire-breathing monsters. You'd think your astral god-father and his pals would've thrown us a bone with this massive shitfest going down."

"They have."

"Yeah? And what have they done, now that the bibbidi-bobbidi-boo they put on us is expiring?" Commodore Highwind snorts, derisive — Ignis is so very tempted to lay it all out for her, lay out the future they have in store, the sacrifices he's promised the Crystal in exchange for Noctis' life, but he doesn't. He doesn't need to, anyway, she reads it on his face, sees the apology he can't afford to verbalise and her eyes narrow. "What have _you_ done?"

*

"You've done us a great service, child of Bahamut," Somnus Lucis Caelum announces and the old kings let out a collective sigh — some grateful, others resigned. The Crystal exacts a hefty price for the life of the Chosen, not all of them thought it worthwhile. But Ignis thinks it is, anything is — for Noct's life, anything. "By your hand, the Chosen King shall live to see the light of dawn."

"I'm grateful for it," Ignis says, meeting the Mystic's grave blue eyes through his helmet, "If the love of a great king has soothed the fire in our hearts and granted all dragons reprieve to savour humanity's potential for compassion, then it is only fitting that the love for a great king shall return all dragonborns to our ways of old."

"Your brethren will not all be pleased with your choice, Ignis Scientia," another king tells him.

"No," Ignis says, "But they'll understand."

"Should they take umbrage at your choice nevertheless?"

"Then so be it."

His vision blurs and Ignis hurries to get his next words out before the kings send him away. "My kings, I ask to serve the Chosen as I currently am, until he no longer has need of me."

"You ask for time?"

"If I may be so bold."

"Your kind has always been bold," one of the kings who spoke earlier — Pervolo, he guesses — laughs, "We will buy you what time we can afford, great dragon. But the Crystal is anxious for its guerdon. And we can only hold it off for so long."

"Thank you," Ignis says, the throne room dissipating before his eyes, "Your generosity will not be in vain, my—"

*

"Noct!" The dragon in him howls as a snaga slashes at his treasure of treasures, and Ignis feels the silent cry reverberating down his spine, feels his bones creak and shift unnaturally. Then he's there, bodily shielding his pearl, and calling his daggers from the armiger, but his hands remain empty.

The train creaks in protest as daemons lay siege on them from all sides. He sees them ramming their grotesque, deformed bodies against the glass windows, hears the odd tappity-tap of too many clawed feet on the roof overhead. Gods. There's so many.

"The armiger's stuck," Noctis shouts.

"Then we run," Gladiolus snaps.

They run.

Ignis keeps pace with his hoard, even though he can outstrip them by at least a mile if he so chooses. They force their way through one cabin, then another, and another, and another. The Regalia's all the way at the back and the train feels like it's going on forever. But it's not.

They get to their car eventually. Noctis dives for the driver's seat and Ignis only has a moment to worry about his pearl's reprehensible skills behind the wheel before they're revving the engine and shooting off like a bullet.

Somehow, the Regalia holds out all the way to Gralea. It feels like King Regis is looking out for them from the beyond — well, Ignis knows for a fact he is. But their relief lasts only for a moment, because Ignis soon finds himself separated from Noct by a crashing train carriage. It lands right smack in their path to Zegnautus Keep, which just stinks of the Chancellor's meddling.

"We'll find another way in," Gladiolus has the nerve to suggest, "Noct can go up ahead."

"Absolutely not."

"It's safer that way. We're sitting ducks for the daemons if we hang about any longer."

Ignis knows it's true. He knows Gladiolus only means the best for them, the best for Noct, but. But he hates it. He hates the idea of sending his pearl away, when they're right in the daemon's den. He hates that they're helpless and dancing to the Chancellor's slippery tune. He hates it, hates it, _hates it_ so much he feels his flesh smouldering, blood simmering, heart burning. He blinks, surprised to find his eyes wet as Gladiolus eyeballs him with stricken concern.

"Shit. Iggy, are you okay—"

"Stay back," he tells Gladiolus, wiping at the tear tracks on his cheeks, and coming away with blood.

"What's going on?" Noctis shouts from the other side of the carriage. The sound grounds him, cools some of his fire but not all of it. He squeezes his eyes shut, breathes in and out, in and out. Still, the heat pours down his back and Ignis has never once experienced a burn in his life, but he knows how it feels like now. It _hurts_. It blisters and aches and brings him to his knees, but not even a whimper leaves his lips, because he doesn't want Noctis to panic. The way Gladiolus is. Definitely panicking.

A delirious sort of laughter threatens to bubble out of him, but it's interrupted by a loud, wet _rip_. Hot. Ignis sucks in a breath. It's hot, he realises. And then… it's not. He feels… fine. Weakened by the pain, but fine. And Gladiolus is staring… not quite at him, but behind him.

"Wings," Gladiolus says, stupidly, "I didn't know you could do that."

Ignis glances over his shoulder to blink at his newfound appendages. "They'll come in handy."

"Specs," Noctis is still shouting, "What's going on?"

The pain's almost worth the look on Noctis' face, as Ignis flies both he and Gladiolus over. "Nothing to worry about, Noct," Ignis replies, "We're just winging it."

That happy awe is immediately tempered with exasperation. "You just ruined the moment, Iggy."

"Truly? I was certain I'd _heightened_ it myself."

"What? How is that a pun?"

"Haven't you noticed I'm currently _scaled up_ in size?"

Noctis reaches out with a tentative hand to stroke the sinewy underside, and Ignis feels something like pleasure unfurl in his gut. He lifts his wing to give his pearl better access. Emboldened, Noctis pets the membrane more firmly, lips trembling with an almost-grin as he says with faux solemnity, "I think that one's a bit of a _stretch_."

Zegnautus poses less of a problem for them than expected, now that Ignis is in possession of wings. He's been looking forward to the Chancellor's ire at having his plans derailed, but the man only seems strangely bemused.

"Are those wings a prize, dragonborn?" Chancellor Izunia chuckles from over the speakers, "Or a price?"

Noctis turns to him, confused, and Ignis straightens, wings unfolding to hide his pearl away from sight. "They're proof of a promise."

"You should be wary of what promises you make with the gods. They won't be to your benefit."

"Anything to the benefit of my pearl is to mine."

That declaration is greeted with an unusually sombre silence, the Chancellor unforthcoming with barbed quips for once. Ignis wonders if he's said something wrong, because Noctis shuffles, visibly uncomfortable, and Gladiolus bristles at his back. They're tensed and quiet as Ignis leads the charge to Prompto's holding cell, with Noctis sending worried glances his way every so often and Gladiolus responding in terse _tsk_ s. So it's a breath of fresh air to have their attentions diverted when they finally come to Prompto, whose blubbering is only stemmed upon sight of Ignis' extra limbs.

"Wicked wings, Iggy," Prompto blurts.

"Thank you, Prompto. I was a little worried they'd give you the vapours."

"The what? You mean they vaporize people?" Prompto eyes them with a childish sort of worship, "That's _awesome_."

"He means he's worried you'll faint from shock," Noctis says.

"Oh. So no vaporizing. That's okay, they're still awesome."

Ignis laughs. "Your vote of confidence is incredibly gratifying."

"What? Did Noct and Gladio piss themselves when you sprouted those?"

"No," Noctis huffs.

"Of course not," Gladiolus snaps, affronted.

"Somewhat," Ignis says.

"Hah!"

"There was no pissing," Noctis insists, "I thought the wings were s— Uh."

"Strong," Gladiolus pitches in, "And useful."

"Bet you were kicking daemon butt with these."

"He laid a Gargantua flat," Gladiolus crows, "With just one swipe."

"Shit. Really?"

Gladiolus crosses his arms over his chest, looking oddly proud. "They're built for agility too. Iggy flies faster than the Regalia, even with the extra weight of two people."

"Strong, fast," Prompto checks the words off his fingers, "Noct? I don't hear anything coming from your corner."

Noctis grimaces, a little red-faced, and Ignis is about to stop their banter even though it's been brilliant for his ego, but then Noctis coughs out, "Sexy. I think they look sexy."

There's a beat of silence. And Ignis doesn't really know how he's supposed to _react_ — all his interactions in polite society have never socialised him for this, but the dragon in him preens. It's absolutely ecstatic his Noct finds him sexually appealing. He's still considering his course of action when Prompto too-emphatically enthuses, "Yeah, totally sexy."

"Ladies dig that bad boy look," Gladiolus quickly adds.

Ignis blinks, staring from one of them to the other, before delicately replying, "I've little care for what ladies may think about my visage," Prompto's eyes fall, Gladio stiffens and Noct gets the look that says he's internally wishing for the ground to swallow him whole; Ignis quickly continues, "But I'm glad that _you_ find my new limbs agreeable enough."

"More than agreeable, Specs," Noctis says, sounding as if he's having an existential crisis, "They're _sexy_."

He risks a blatant breach of propriety by initiating a winged hug, a tiny part of him waiting for divine retribution, but no. Nothing explodes, there's no random bolt of lightning falling from the skies, no astral-mediated smiting as he cradles Noctis close. He lowers his voice so it's only for his pearl's ears. "I'm very flattered."

Then he lets him go, because they've a ring to deliver, a star to save.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was hell to write, so I'm just hoping it's coherent. Also, things have been pretty busy with my new job. Thanks for all the comments and kudos! [Tumblr!](https://hati-skoll.tumblr.com/post/178375996027/the-desolation-of-ignis-34)


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